Orchids
by sangre antigua
Summary: John visits Mary's grave on her birthday. SECOND PERSON


**Author:** sangre antigua.

**Rating; Title; Pairing:** K; Orchids; John Winchester/Mary Winchester.

**Summary:** John visits Mary's grave on her birthday. SECOND PERSON

**Warning/Disclaimer:** Do not own _Supernatural._

It's been a ritual that you will not break, cannot break, since November 2nd, 1983. Every year, on Mary's birthday, you drive home to Lawrence, Kansas and place orchids on Mary's grave—since they were her favorites, and she couldn't stand roses—and sit there, talking with her in person. You talk to her when you drive, when you're on the road by yourself and you don't want to feel as alone as you do; you talk to her when you're out at a bar after a hunt, telling her you made it back safely and that you love her; when you get a phone call from Sam or Dean, but don't answer because you can't find the words to say. It's different when you're at her grave, though, sitting beside her tombstone, knowing she is there but _just_ out of reach. When you talk to her, you never hesitate to speak your mind, or laugh, or rage, or cry. She never says anything back, she just accepts everything. Her silence is a comforting constant and it helps you through the day.

Lawrence is still the same as ever, even if a year has past since you've been here last. It's cold and the leaves have all changed and fallen, but the sight is familiar and comforts you. There's a bouquet of orchids sitting in the passenger's seat, the thin purple tissue paper wrapped about the stems glowing faintly in the dim Kansas sunset. You long to see her holding them, the beautiful pink and yellow flowers pressed delicately against her smooth, beautiful face, her blond hair a gleaming halo behind them. She would tear a little and look at you and whisper, "They're beautiful, John, thank you." And you would hold her tightly to you and kiss her, and tell her you love her because Heaven and Hell know you do. When you used to fight, you would bring her orchids and ask for forgiveness, even if you hadn't started the fight. And she always forgave you, and she always loved you. And you could never ask for more than that.

Upon the constant realization that, no, she will never be able to say or do those things again, your blood runs cold and the ability to swallow seems to escape you. But it always returns. However, the cold never fully leaves you. It's been adding up since she died, piling higher and higher in its corner until its shadow completely engulfs you.

You turn into the familiar cemetery and park your truck where you always do. It's quiet and peaceful, with dull light taking away some of the melancholy that floats around hollowed places like these. The car is then shut off and, after swallowing hard and checking your hair in the side mirror, you take Mary's flowers and walk to her grave.

The graveyard is clean, the grass freshly mowed and most of the leaves raked up. Someone had been there only moments before, as the smell of incense is still in the air, and if you look hard enough you could find the source of the smell. But you've got a date with your wife and nothing can sway you away from it.

Mary's tombstone is square and cold, but you sit down and lean against it as if it was plush and warm. Goosebumps dance up and down your skin from the cool. The flowers are laid against the ground before the tombstone, and with a sigh you read over the epitaph and ghost your fingers over the lettering of her name.

"Happy birthday, baby," you say softly, a gentle smile creeping on your lips. There is no shame in talking to your wife's grave. You've never had a problem showing her affection like this to her, though it strictly goes against your character. "I've missed you a lot, y'know? Ain't the same without you here." You fall silent, licking your suddenly too dry lips and playing with your fingernails. On the ride here, you had promised yourself that you wouldn't lapse into the same speech as always, but here you are: smack dab in the middle of it. "Saw the boys a few months back. You wouldn't believe how much they've grown, baby. Sam's as tall as a building and as stubborn as—well, as stubborn as me. And Dean...he's your boy. Just like you."

Tears fill your eyes as another silence falls. The sun is beginning to set behind you, and you quietly apologize to Mary for getting there so late. "I'll stay with you all night, if you allow me. If you want me to leave before, just say so." She doesn't, so you stay. Gladly stay. At this moment in time, there's no where else you'd rather be. Unless being in her warm arms was an option.

"Mary...I'm worried about them...so much. You were always so great with them and I...I don't know...sometimes...I've never been the greatest father, and...I miss you so much and I need you, and..." You rub your face hard and sit up, staring down at her grave marker, blinking away the tears. "I hope you're happy in Heaven, and I hope you looking down on the three of us and I...I hope you know I love you, and I hope you have an amazing birthday and...God, Mary...baby...I miss you so much."

You find no shame in crying, in watering the earth with your tears, and you do so for a while until the well is dry. When you're finished, you dry your eyes with your sleeves and continue talking to her. "Beautiful orchids this year. I found them in a little town near the Kansas border. They're pink and purple, and the centers are yellow. They're so vibrant, I know you'd love them." You play with the tissue paper, audibly gasping when you tear off a corner and it blows away into the evening air. The words fly out of your mouth as you curse yourself yet again and apologize, but the wind scolds you with a gust that blows your hair in every which way. It also deposits the paper back, which you meekly tuck into the bouquet.

"I think I'm close to Yellow Eyes. And I mean it this time. I've been looking for him under every rock and...I think I've found his trail this time." For the umpteenth time, you wonder how she would feel about you hunting demons. Would she believe you? Or worry? Or would she silently aid you and tend to your wounds when you got hurt? Mary was calm, beautiful, happy; the best woman you ever met and the truest love you will ever know. Not a day passes when you don't miss her, and she knows that. And she knows you're going to avenge her—though, whether or not she agrees is another story. "I'm going to make him pay if it's the last thing I do, Mary. I'll promise you that."

As the sun goes down and leaves you in darkness, you lounge against the marker and continue talking to her. You tell her about the demons you've hunted and the people you've saved, about your tough days and your long nights, about Dean and Sam's journey and how proud you are of them. You really are proud of them, and you love them so much, even though they can't see it sometimes. You tell her what's been going on in the world, how much things have changed since she last roamed the plane. Lovingly you stroke her name all the while.

It gets cold fast and you wrap yourself tightly in your jacket. But then it crosses your mind that Mary might be cold, too, so you take off your jacket and lay it around her tombstone, making sure all but her name is covered. Even in the darkness, you can still make it out. Kind of like her eyes—they always seemed to glow wherever she was. "Don't worry about me. I'm not cold at all." You smile and the wind ruffles your hair again.

You're not sure what time it is when your phone rings, but the soft buzzing snaps you out of a quiet daydream, one of you and Mary in the Impala at a drive-in movie. It's Dean. He always calls on Mary's birthday, though you never answer. You're unsure how to fair with talking to him when you're like this. Your voice is hoarse from not speaking and you're not in the right mind to talk to Dean or Sam or anyone _but_ Mary right now. So you let it go to voicemail and answer it then.

The message begins with Dean clearing his throat, and you can almost hear his jaw set afterward and his eyes roll. "Hey, Dad, uh...just callin' 'cause Sam and I were wondering if you needed help, or if you had a case for us or if...if you were in Lawrence." There's a pause and the silence is deafening. "Actually, I know you're there. I've known for a while, but I don't wanna intrude and...tell her I love her, okay?" Sam says something to Dean and Dean says, "Sam loves her, too." There's another pause and, again, you can hear your eldest clenching his jaw. "Well...be safe. Bye, Dad." End of message.

You lick your lips again and sit up, checking the phone and gazing at the eye-sore of time that is 11:57PM. Where had all that time gone? "That was Dean, baby," you tell her, adjusting her coat one more time as you yawn. "Sam and Dean want me to tell you that they love you. Great boys, rememberin' and everything." The wind stirs once more and graces your cheek, and you swear on your life that that's Mary's hand and she's smiling from up above you.

"Baby, I'm gonna go now. Gonna go crash at a Motel 6 or something. I'll be back in the morning, to say goodbye until next time." Gingerly, you plant a kiss on the M of her first name and ghost your hand over her epitaph. The wind goes again, and you tear up. _She really is everywhere_, you tell yourself. You rise reluctantly, not wanting to go but needing to. You drove all day and you're exhausted. You leave your jacket there, figuring she needs it more.

The walk out of the cemetery feels like it takes hours, and you look over your shoulder at her jacket-clad grave multiple times before you reach your car. Dew covers the driver's side handle, and for the first time you notice the dampness of your jeans from sitting in the grass. Unfazed, you get in the truck.

The window is rolled down to allow the wind, Mary, inside. It brushes your hair as you steadily cruse to the two star motel on the side of the highway. There are light purple storm clouds rolling steadily in. The thought of Mary, the sky, crying makes you tear up again. You dry your eyes before you rent your room.

After paying for a night and entering your shabby, bone-bare room, you fall asleep almost upon contact with the pillow. But not before an image of Mary smiling pops into your mind. You quietly wish it goodnight. You dream of her until you wake, and you clutch the spare pillow to your chest as you sleep, pretending with all your might that it's her. But her smell isn't there, nor her warmth or the soft rise and fall of her chest. It hasn't been there in so long...

In the morning, it's raining, and you sigh before showering and putting on a fresh pair of clothes. You always hated to see Mary cry, and rain in Lawrence meant his angel was crying. It always rained when he came to Lawrence.

The graveyard grass is wet as your walk into the cemetery, as is your jacket. But you're glad you left it there. She can keep it, you have more. You lean down and adjust it, kissing the M once more, and prop the orchids against them. It was roughly seven o'clock when you checked out of the motel, and the sun is almost fully in the sky now, though it's partially hidden by rain clouds. Where the cloud breaks, the sun illuminates her name and the flowers with a warmth that reminds you of her. Because, after all, Mary was and is your sun.

You tell her where you're heading and about your case. You ask her to pray for your safety and for that of those you plan to save. And, again, you tell her how much you love her and miss her.

"I'm going to go now, baby," you whisper, crouched in front of your jacket and the orchids. You brush wet hair from your teary eyes. "Got a job to do. But I'll talk to your later, and I'll be here next year with orchids and I'll..." The wind blows and you choke on a sob. "I'll be missing you until then, and after then and...always. I love you."


End file.
